


Mortuorum

by Feyland



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Undeath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-04-24 18:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feyland/pseuds/Feyland
Summary: A king, a curse, and an adventuring party on a quest to destroy them both.(A Les Mis D&D-inspired fantasy AU - D&D knowledge not vital)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is fantasy based on D&D mechanics, but should be accessible to all readers. I will, however, include a glossary at the end of each chapter, as well as a list of the classes/races/backgrounds of characters as they’re introduced.

The night was dark as pitch, the clouds hanging so low the owl could taste the heavy rain the air promised. It soared lazily, letting the warm night breeze hold it aloft as it scanned the treetops of the orchard. Even in the inky blackness beyond the reach of the dancing lamplights of town, the owl could see clearly enough, its vision sharp as a pin as it picked up the barest hint of movement that didn’t quite match the push of the wind. The owl dove, letting out a quiet hoot that startled the drow standing nearly invisibly against a gnarled apple tree, and fluttered down to land on the man’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch at all as the talons found purchase, but instead grinned, the flash of his teeth the brightest thing in the night.

“There you are,” he murmured affectionately, and the owl turned its head to rub up against the dark elf’s cheek. He raised a hand to stoke at the soft feathered head, but the owl leapt from his shoulder again, wings outstretched. The drow watched calmly, unphased as the owl’s wings extended further, brown feathers turning to brown skin, ears growing into long points, the neck lengthening gracefully, and the sharp talons turning to soft, bare feet. The drow’s smile only grew as he beheld the transformation of the druid, all but dripping with natural magic, even on a moonless night.

“You’re late, little bird,” the drow said, a teasing lilt in his voice, as he reached out to draw the other elf close to him.

They didn’t reply, but instead threw themself up on their toes, wrapping their arms around his shoulders, and kissed him full on the mouth, tender and lovely and drenched in electric affection.

Gods only knew the drow would have been happy to stay there forever, his back pressed up against a rough knot in the tree, a creature that felt both utterly like wilderness and home wrapped in his embrace. Still, he couldn’t find himself displeased when they drew back eventually with one last teasing lick at his lips, letting him gaze upon their face that was brighter to him than any sun.

“You taste like apples,” they said lightly. “Stealing from the orchards again, Montparnasse?”

Montparnasse snorted gentle, tossing his silver hair like a prize show horse. “Nothing that would be missed. Besides, waiting for you left me hungry.”

“Mmm,” the druid said, running their hand down Montparnasse’s arm and taking his hand in theirs, before pulling him out to walk with them among the shadows of the trees. “I _am_ sorry,” they said. “But once I took off I didn’t want to come down. It’s a beautiful night.”

“It is,” agreed Montparnasse as they strolled along. “So dark. The perfect night to not be seen.”

His companion nudged him playfully. “The perfect night to spend with me,” they corrected. “And I shall be making certain you aren’t stealing more than apples tonight.”

“I would like your permission to steal one more thing,” Montparnasse responded seriously, enough to make the other elf pause and turn to him, their brow lightly creased.

“What’s that?”  
“Your heart, of course.”

The laugh that fell from their lips was as sweet as bells, and Montparnasse wanted to kiss each peal from their mouth.

“You cannot steal something that has been given to you willingly,” they giggled, delight playing across their face. “I gave you my heart long ago!”  
“The heart of Jehan Prouvaire, willingly offered,” Montparnasse sighed, unable to keep himself from running his hand gently across their cheek. “It’s almost enough to make a man stop thieving for good. What greater treasure could there be?”

“I can offer you a kiss for everyone moment you spend in my arms and not sneaking through the dark,” Jehan said, coyly.

“I would much rather slip off into the darkness with you,” Montparnasse replied, drawing Jehan up to him again, laying a tender kiss on their forehead, and making his way down their cheek, to their throat.

“The moon may be hiding, but I know the Moonweaver is watching,” Jehan murmured, their eyes falling closed and their breath catching a little under Montparnasse’s mouth.

“I thought she was meant to keep trysts hidden in her shadows,” he sighed, running a hand through Jehan’s long hair, combing the tangles that caught on his fingers. “How do you know she’s here?” As he spoke, a patch of low-hung cloud broke open, suddenly spilling moonlight over Montparnasse’s face, bright enough to make him blink. His dark, greyish skin was illuminated, showing off the faint, pale scar that lined one cheek.

Jehan could not help themself, and they reached up to kiss the scar, laying a copper-coloured hand against their lover’s face.

“You see?” they laughed. “We’re never quite alone, I’m afraid.”

“Close enough, said Montparnasse, smiling despite himself, drawing Jehan into another embrace, letting them lead him in a swaying dance as they clung to each other, heedless to any watching goddess.

 

Montparnasse sensed it first, his entire body stiffening under Jehan’s hands. He whipped around quickly, his dagger appearing in one hand as though he had summoned it from shadows, the other keeping Jehan firmly behind him. They had nearly reached the edge of the orchard, and no moonbeams illuminated the wild field beyond it. The tall grass rustled, though, as if the rain had already begun, but the air was still, the clouds yet unbroken.

Deadly still, Montparnasse and Jehan held their position, not daring to breathe, as the first creature came into view.

A sheep.

Jehan felt Montparnasse’s tense body relax, saw him start to lower his dagger, and they gripped his hand harder in warning. More sheep were spilling out of the unkempt weeds, though something was wrong, Jehan knew instantly. The herd moving past them walked stiffly, silent but for the sound of grass being trampled into the ground. Not a single bleat came from the two dozen animals making their way in the pitch black.

Montparnasse let out the barest hint of a breath, drawing Jehan’s attention beyond the sheep, to the upright figure slowly following behind them. Even in the darkness, both pairs of sharp elven eyes could see the dim features of a human woman, walking at the same stiff pace. Her jaw was slack, her eyes dull and unseeing as she moved mechanically. Her simple clothes were thin and threadbare, and she didn’t react when her skirt caught on a shrub and tore a strip from the hem.

Jehan’s blood had run cold, and they sent a question out into the soil through the soles of their feet, asking the earth for answers. The subtle vibration of their magic radiated through the earth, surrounding the herd of strange and silent sheep, and their shepherdess.

The answer that came back to them was jarring. Not a single heart was beating in the field beyond the orchard.

“Undead,” they breathed to Montparnasse.

The barest tilt of his head indicated that he had heard them, but his brow furrowed. Montparnasse had seen undead before - had faced them himself on occasion. The empty husk of a human passing him was terribly unlike to vicious, decaying skeletons and ghouls reanimated by warlocks and necromancers with which he was familiar. But it was also clear there was no life at all in the woman before him - and yet, she walked, compelled by something Montparnasse did not understand.

Montparnasse and Jehan stood there, silently, long after the shepherdess and her flock had passed them by. Her path was straight as an arrow, and seemed to point her towards the inky forest, thankfully away from the sleeping town.

Jehan’s hand was still clasped tight in Montparnasse’s, but the soft ease of midnight romance had evaporated into the heavy clouds, and did not return even when the rain began to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I play Dungeons and Dragons twice a week, listen to D&D podcasts, and watch D&D live play shows, and apparently that still isn’t enough for me, so now you get to share in my obsession.)
> 
> Characters:  
> -Jehan - Wood Elf, Druid: Circle of the Moon, Hermit background  
> -Montparnasse - Drow (dark elf), Rogue: Thief, Criminal background
> 
> Glossary :  
> -Druid - magic-user gaining their powers from either a natural deity or the force of nature itself - able to shapeshift into animals. Every 12-year-old girl’s dream.   
> -Rogue - stealthy, dextrous, and cunning class known for spying, sneaking, picking locks, being an edgelord  
> -The Moonweaver - Chaotic Good goddess of the moon, protective of lovers & secret trysts, worshiped by those being sneaky in the dark.
> 
> (Let me know if I missed anything! Ask me questions! Talk D&D with me! I'm a mess!   
> -Catch me on tumblr at feyland.tumblr.com)


	2. Whispers

The room was uncharacteristically silent as Jehan finished speaking. Montparnasse had declined Jehan’s offer to accompany them to the weekly meeting held beneath sound-deadening stone floors, but had given his blessing for them to name him as a co-witness to the haunting pilgrimage of the shepherdess and her flock. 

Combeferre spoke first. 

“From which direction did they come?” he asked quietly, the calm in his voice betrayed by the unrest in his golden eyes. 

“From the east,” Jehan answered. “They did not come by the Red Road itself, but from the fields through which it passes.” 

Enjolras’s head snapped up, and he exchanged a charged look with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Jehan was not the only one that noticed.

“What is it?” Grantaire spoke up from the table against the packed-dirt wall of the cellar. “What does it mean, that they came from the east?”

“It might not be connected-” Combeferre began, but stopped as he glanced again at Enjolras, catching the agitation radiating off of the paladin. 

“There are rumours of something dark brewing in the King’s Lands,” Enjolras said. “The harvest the past year was devastating with the rot that ruined every crop. There were suspicions it was poison in the soil - not even the oldest farmers could identify a natural source. News from the region claimed hundreds of lives were lost to famine. As you know, the true number was likely in the thousands.”

“When we addressed it in the autumn, we were focused on the needs of the people affected by the famine,” Combeferre said quietly. “Not the source of it. Perhaps we should have been more proactive.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Feuilly spoke up. 

“There are rumours about the king and the people close to him,” Enjolras said, the word  _ ‘king’  _ coming out like a curse. “The land around the castle is still black and barren. People who have family in service there have not heard from their loved ones. And- I had dismissed the possibility as nonsense, but there are those who claim the advisor to the king is highly skilled in necromancy. That perhaps he is teaching the king himself.”

The cool room was silent again, but for the shifting of a few gazes towards Marius. His brow was furrowed, and he looked pale, the look of distress growing as he noticed the eyes on him.

“I-I didn’t,” he broke out hastily. “I don’t do things like- like that!”

Courfeyrac was the first to save the poor wizard. Leaping off his perch on top of a table, he quickly made his way to Marius’s side, pulling the still-protesting man’s head against his chest. 

“Oh Marius, sweet, sweet Marius,” Courfeyrac crooned, stroking Marius’s curls. “Nobody is accusing you of anything. We were just wondering if you might know anything about what’s happening. If you’ve read about anything that could possibly be the source.”

“Oh.” Marius flushed and ducked his head. As though sensing his panic, Marius’s shirt pocket began to move, and the pink nose of Napoleon, his usually-a-rat familiar, poked out. Marius reached up to pull the creature out, and held him in his lap. “It doesn’t really sound familiar to me,” he said cautiously. “But I also haven’t seen any of it in person. I supposed I could go to the capital if it would be helpful…”

Combeferre held up his hands. “While I think we all appreciate the offer, I suspect it would be a dangerous step. We would be better to gather more information first.”

“But the sentiment is noble, Marius,” Enjolras said. “This may be the thing that leads us to action. The monarchy has repressed the people of this land for generations. Disbanding schools of magical education. Barring worship of gods deemed too radical. Institutionalizing xenophobia towards so-called ‘monstrous’ races.” Enjolras’s eyes passed over Grantaire, but he quickly looked away and carried on. “We have long known that the royals have no care for the lives of the common people. If our suspicions turn out to be true, it is clear they care nothing for our deaths either. Far too long has the monarchy worked the common person to their grave, and now they may be reviving those bodies and put them again to work? It is obscene. My friends, this might be the opportunity we have been waiting for to strike back against the crown. If we can prove and expose the evils brewing in the capital, perhaps it will be enough to call the people to our side, so that they may fight for their own freedom.”

Enjolras voice had grown stronger as he spoke, the slip of natural magic tinging the edges gold. A burst of supportive murmurs broke out of the small group as he finished, the support of his fellows making Enjolras’s heart swell. But as the room quieted down, a single set of hands began to clap, slow, and loud, and mocking. 

All eyes turned to Grantaire, who didn’t take his eyes off of Enjolras, even as ale sloshed from his tankard at the force of his derisive applause.

“So inspirational, as always,” he said, the mock-awe in his voice not quite reaching his eyes. “Tell me, though, what is it about the undead that makes you think people are going to suddenly want to take on the king? If the people were too afraid to speak up before, why would they want to stick their necks out now that they have to face down an army of undead too?”

“The people have always been angry, Grantaire,” Enjolras snapped. “The royal boot has been slowly pressing down on their backs. It is harder to detect new injustice when it is just more weight added to your burden. But this - this is a new threat. It is difficult to know who could be at fault when your crops die. But facing the spectre of your brother raised by dark magic by order of the king? That is undeniable.” 

“If the king is raising the dead, every person you send to fight is another corpse to add to his army!”

“Do you suggest instead we wait to be slain and revived in our beds instead?” 

“I suggest we try not to get ourselves killed on the basis of a few rumours and a single sighting by a couple of horny elves - sorry, Jehan.” 

The argument rang off of the stone - nobody dared interrupt. Grantaire got to his feet, glaring. Enjolras was tall, but he needed to tilt his head up to maintain the hard eye contact held between him and the half-orc. 

“You’re looking for an excuse to pick a fight,” Grantaire said as they stared each other down. “You don’t need one. There have been reasons enough to rise up against the king, against his father, and  _ his _ father before. The kingdom will remain corrupt and wicked as long as a kingdom exists. Even if there is dark necromancy hanging over the crown, you can’t use it as an excuse to go charging into battle. You will help no one if your body is rotting in a gibbet. Be smart, Enjolras. Pick fights you know you can win.”

They stared at each other, the room suddenly far too small for the gathered group. Without taking their eyes off of the two men, Bahorel and Bossuet silently shook on a wager. 

Enjolras broke first. 

“Grantaire is right,” he said firmly, his golden cheeks only a little darkened. 

The tension slowly seeped from the chamber as everyone let out their collective breath. Bossuet’s sigh was a little mournful as he passed the gold piece over to Bahorel, who grinned.

“We are not ready to face the king’s forces. He has kept us blind by burning our libraries and our alters. But we can be sure he watches his kingdom with an eagle’s eye. We cannot fight what we cannot see or understand. I propose instead we take the time to draw out whatever information has been kept in his dark hands. We find out whatever we can of the king’s dark magic. We find out about the people close to him, the state of the capital, what other undead have been seen. All in favour?”

Every hand rose - Grantaire’s too. He gave Enjolras an overly enthusiastic smile, his short tusks jutted forward. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“Fine, then. We will meet again in a week. Until then, find out what you can from any source you trust. Take caution, my friends, but be bold. Listen for dissent, for we may need to fuel that in time, but listen too for anything about what connection the king has to the undead. If he is growing an army, it is because he wants to eliminate something he fears. Whatever he fears, it may be the key to facing him on even ground.” The same golden tinge had found its way out of Enjolras’s throat, as hot as molten lava. “When we meet at last, it will be eye-to-eye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character:  
> -Enjolras - High Elf, Paladin: Oath of Devotion, Folk Hero background  
> -Courfeyrac - Lightfoot Halfling, Bard: College of Lore, Performer background  
> -Combeferre - Aasimar, Wizard: School of Abjuration, Sage background  
> -Marius - Half-elf, Wizard: School of Necromancy, Noble background  
> -Grantaire - Half-orc, Warlock: High Fae patron, Outlander background  
> -Bossuet - Human, Sorcerer: Wild Magic, Folk Hero background  
> -Bahorel - Mountain Dwarf, Fighter: Champion, Gladiator background  
> -Joly - Forest Gnome, Cleric: Light domain, Acolyte background  
> -Feuilly - Half-elf, Monk: Way of the Four Elements, Guild Artisan background  
> -Jehan - Wood Elf, Druid: Circle of the Moon, Hermit background  
> -Montparnasse - Drow (dark elf), Rogue: Thief, Criminal background
> 
> Glossary  
> -Familiar- a fae spirit the takes the form of an animal and is connected to the caster who summoned it  
> -Aasimar - a humanoid descended from celestials. Looks human, has some cool angelic blood that offers some cool shit like wings sometimes, and a healing touch. Combeferre is a literal angel baby, is what I’m saying.  
> -Paladin - A holy knight, generally crusading for goodness, often dedicated to a god. The designated driver.  
> -Bard - a spellcaster who generally uses music or poetry to cast. High charisma, high sex appeal. Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.  
> -Wizard - Spellcaster who uses books and education to learn magic. Lots of specialities, all of them nerdy.  
> -Sorcerer - spellcaster with an innate power, often stemming from a powerful bloodline. Naturally talented at something other people have to learn through a lot of study, swear allegiance to a god, or blow a demon to get.  
> -Warlock - speaking of which. Spellcaster who gets their power through a pact with an otherworldly patron. Could be anything from an archdevil to a fae queen to cthulhu. The kinkiest class.  
> -Fighter - generally juggling 34 weapons at once. Could kill you with a feather.  
> -Cleric - magic-users with a divine source, clerics are holy warriors and healers. She protec but she also attac  
> -Monk - a martial artist/ninja warrior who can manipulate energy to take down enemies with their bare hands. can you punch with all the colours of the wiiiiiind  
> -Druid - magic-user gaining their powers from either a natural deity or the force of nature itself - able to shapeshift into animals. Every 12-year-old girl’s dream.  
> -Rogue - stealthy, dextrous, and cunning class known for spying, sneaking, picking locks, being an edgelord


	3. Research

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for mentions of violence & alcohol abuse

“Good evening, Sister,” Feuilly murmured, ducking their head respectfully towards the dragonborn woman seated on the earth near enough to the Eternal Flame that they could see the glow reflecting off her bronze scales. The dragonborn said nothing, and Feuilly sat beside her unphased by the silence. They crossed their legs carefully, the peace of the gesture rising up through the soil as their body fell into the pattern of familiar meditation. They focused on their breathing, acknowledging the earth supporting their weight, the heat of the flame settling on their eyelids. The air always smelled sweeter here, and they drank in each breath, addressing the weight of it, thick with humidity. They had questions for the monk beside them, but they searched for answers themself, sending the questions down through their palms into the dirt. Focusing in on the vibrations, Feuilly stretched their attention, trying to locate a vein that would lead them to the answers they needed. But the ground felt like static, disjointed and unclear. Feuilly pushed harder - the feeling rose, like a hundred thousand voices, but so muffled Feuilly could not parse the words. They let out a breath, pushing back against the static. The not-quite-sound faded again, the words growing faintly clearer, but vanishing as Feuilly strained to hear.

“You ask for answers too quickly,” the dragonborn said quietly.

Feuilly sighed. “The earth speaks too slowly. If I had questions for the wind, I would have had the answers before I had even asked. But it’s the testimony of the earth I am seeking, and I know no one better to listen for me, Sahra, than you.”

“I will not offer you another lesson of patience today,” Sahra said, her mouth curving upwards. “But know that I always have one ready should you ever find the time.”

Feuilly felt their cheeks colour.

“Tell me, Sibling. What is it you wish to ask the earth?”

Feuilly’s chest felt tight as they bit their lip, unsure of how to word their request. Affinities aside, the earth was still their Mother, supporting them even as they explored the fast-moving thrills of fire and wind and water. She was always there - and Feuilly was suddenly struck with fear at the thought that she might not always be. They turned their eyes towards Sahra, trying to share as much as they could, more than what their words could say.

“I need you to ask the earth who is killing her.”

*

“Dance with me,” Joly said, holding out his hands to Bossuet. “I need to pray. Chetta, will you play?”

Musichetta smiled, reaching for her flute. “My pleasure,” she said. “Any requests?”

“Mmm, something up-tempo, if you would be so kind. I have quite a few questions for Lliira, and I want to make sure I can get her attention.”

Musichetta began to play, the tune bright and lively, and Joly grinned as he pulled Bossuet into his arms, spinning them both around in a fast-paced jig. No matter the weight of the nature of his questions, Joly could not imagine summoning his goddess’s attention with anything other than the joyful dance from which Lliira’s clerics and priests got their name. He loved the feeling of the threads of happiness that wound through his veins, and reached out towards the celestial plane. He loved that there was no need to speak for Lliira to hear him, nor did he need to solidify his thoughts into even silent words. The things he asked of his goddess came from somewhere deeper than language, and his intentions spoke loudly enough with each sway and step. He took his holy symbol in hand, running his thumb over the ruby and emerald adorning the face, rubbed smooth by regular devotion. Bossuet’s hands found Joly’s waist, pulling him close, adding heat to the radiating pulse under his fingertips. Joly reached up, peppering kisses along Bossuet’s jaw and neck as they continued to move together, churning the prayer underfoot.

Lliira’s voice, when it came, was as sweet as Musichetta’s music.

*  
  


Jehan was careful not to draw attention to themself as they moved through the people hard at work harvesting the orchard’s treasures. The gnarled trees didn’t have quite the same creeping delight in the daylight, but they were beautiful nonetheless, straining sunlight through the leaves, leaving dappled shade beneath. Nobody bothered Jehan, their movements muffled by a charm, as they travelled through the orchard, towards the edge where they had found Montparnasse two days prior.

Looking out over the wild field from which they had seen the shepherdess come, Jehan felt the air in their lungs turn thick as smoke, hardening in their throat. Despite the late afternoon sun bathing the valley in golden light, the field was as dark as it had been in the inky nighttime. The undead shepherdess and her flock had not come by any road, but a clear path was burned into the ground as far as Jehan could see into the treeline. The trampled grass had turned black as pitch, like a misplaced stripe of paint on an otherwise lovely canvas.

Jehan approached, cautiously, the comfort of their usually bare feet suddenly feeling foolish and dangerous. As they got closer, they could see that the blackness was spreading. Even blades of grass that had gone untouched was taking on a black tinge from their roots on up, and snapped under Jehan’s feet, already dead from the inside.

The black trail was wretched, the grass strangled and rotten. Beneath it, the ground looked as though it had been painted in thick grease, bubbling in places as thought it was digesting anything that dared still live under the surface. Jehan regarded it with a sick feeling mounting in their chest, trying to prepare themself for what they might hear, and sent their magic out, casting a charm to speak with the plants.

They had not prepared well enough at all. All they could hear was screaming.

*

“I appreciate you coming with me. I probably would not have gotten past the threshold without you.”

Bahorel snorted. “I think most folks are pretty over the whole ‘Elves and Dwarves Have to Hate Each Other’ thing. I don’t think anyone would have given you any trouble because of that.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I just meant more, well, because of my personality,” Enjolras said lightly. “I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but I do tend to come on a little strong.”

Bahorel tipped his head back and laughed, slapping Enjolras on the back as they approached the Drunken Anvil tavern.

The door was thrown open from the inside before they had even reached the step, and a stout dwarven woman with an elegantly braided beard stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, he mouth stretched into a smile across her wide face.

“I know that laugh anywhere! Bahorel, where in the Nine Hells have ya been? Someone with a little less faith in ya woulda said ya fell down a crevasse and was still climbing yar way out.”

“Please accept my humblest apologies, Miss Kimolla,” Bahorel said cheerfully, snatching his cap off his head and bending into a low bow. “It was for the sake of my health. You see, I was told I shouldn’t be looking straight at the sun, and I figured, well that must apply to your radiant face as well.”

“Oh, hush you,” Kimolla said, throwing her arms around him in a bone-shatteringly enthusiastic hug.

“I was hoping I could beg a favour from you, Miss Kimolla,” Bahorel said as they separated again. “My friend Enjolras, here, and I are investigating something of a mystery. We were hoping some of your patrons might have a deeper understanding of some of the events we’re looking into.”

“We would be in your debt, Miss Kimolla,” Enjolras said, solemnly.

Kimolla looked up at him, squinting a little. Her attention felt like a weight, and Enjolras shifted beneath it.

“I have a condition,” she said at last, her tone much more serious than it had been towards Bahorel.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“My condition is you buy a pint or two for your friend here so he’ll stick around long enough to get a good conversation in with me.”

Her laughter mingled with Bahorel’s as Enjolras smiled, and followed her into the bar.

  
*

Combeferre sighed, closing the heavy book. The tome had detailed the astonishing adventures of a small group of mercenaries with a knack for seeking out and destroying nests of undead. Not the academic books Combeferre was more used to, but he had at least hoped there might be something hidden in the pages of glittering tales of heroism that would offer a clue into the unfamiliar foe looming over the area like the shadows battling a sputtering candle. But the undead in the book behaved like one would expect. Skeletons and zombies and wraiths attacked viciously, undeterred by any sense of self-preservation, spurred by whatever dark magic had pulled them from the grave. They were nothing like the silent, eerie flock Jehan had described, nor did they seem to pollute the land on which they walked.

Academic texts had also failed Combeferre. They seemed to fall into two extremes - either they offered in uncomfortable detail the dark methods and uses of powerful necromantic magic, or else they offered only bland moralizing on the evils of reanimation, and how necromancers were inherently wicked, power-hungry deviants. At the very least, the latter amused Combeferre as he compared the judgements to Marius and his nervous magic. Marius had claimed his specialization had come to him by accident, his natural talent reaching out to surprise him when he once tried to coax a dying bouquet of flowers back to life. Wickedly deviant indeed.

Combeferre wished the other wizard was with him - it would certainly be more helpful to have someone capable of answering the pile of questions he was quickly accumulating. But Marius was busy with Courfeyrac, leaving Combeferre to research alone in the dusty library.

The final book he had pulled looked particularly unhelpful, parts of its cover stained red to resemble a spray of blood. The title, Death March, was also painted to look like dripping gore. But it was the last book in his pile, and so Combeferre slid it forward, and with nothing left to lose, he cracked it open.

*  
 

“The epaulettes are wrong. Here.” Marius reached out to adjust the shoulders of Courfeyrac’s uniform. “If you’re trying to get in by pulling rank, you have to be sure you’re wearing that rank correctly.”

Courfeyrac turned, letting Marius fiddle with the tassles and brush down the coat’s tails. Marius was still fidgeting when Courfeyrac broke away from him to examine himself in the looking glass.

“Well, Marius? Would you bow with respect at the sight of me?” The halfling turned, grinning up at his friend with dimpled cheeks.

“You mustn’t smile like that,” Marius replied seriously. “An on-duty soldier could be flogged for displaying any emotions.”

“Well if I am asked, I will claim to be off-duty then.”

“That would be worse,” Marius said, pained. “Off-duty, you are meant to disappear. The palace is obsessed with appearances. Not a spoon nor flower nor a servant can be out of place. A soldier would know all of this, so you must too.”

“How do you know all of this, then?” said Courfeyrac, thoughtfully.

“Oh,” said Marius. “Well, ah, you see. When I was younger, my grandfather made a great effort to have me accend to court. He had hopes I would have the chance to wed the king.”

Courfeyrac spun away from his reflection to gawk at Marius. The half-elf had gone crimson, avoiding Courfeyrac’s eye like he had the potential to turn him to stone.

“Well, he was still just a prince at the time,” muttered Marius. “And I was- well, it was back when my grandfather was still under the impression he had a granddaughter. I spent nearly two years there, before I could convince him to send me away to school instead. I really saw very little of the prince - I was never a favourite of his. I doubt he would even remember me.”

“You’re telling me that one of my dearest friends spent _years_ in the king’s palace in an attempt to seduce him, and then left to become the necromancer the king could only dream of becoming, and I am only learning of this _now_? Marius!” Courfeyrac cried, throwing himself down onto the chaise conveniently placed within the boudoir. “You wound me!”

“It wasn’t like that!” Marius said, his voice growing higher with anxiety, but the damage was done and Courfeyrac was not easily silenced. By the time Marius had finished dressing and training him, Courfeyrac had imagined every detail of the wedding that might have been, and how different their world might have been had Marius been in the king’s ear.

“My opportunity has passed,” Marius finally protested. “It’s your turn to infiltrate the king’s palace now.” Following Courfeyrac to the door, he paused, looking as though he was going to re-adjust something about the uniform again, but instead threw his arms around his friend.

“Be safe,” he whispered to Courfeyrac.

“Don’t worry, Marius. I am as charming as I am handsome. I’ll be fine.”

But Marius still held on. “I know how dangerous that place can be. Promise me, Courfeyrac. Swear you will keep yourself safe.”

The returning hug was fierce. “I swear it,” said Courfeyrac.

*

It wasn’t until his third bottle of faerie wine that Grantaire’s consciousness began to waver. He was growing too high a tolerance, he thought hazily. He would need to remember to ask his patron for something stronger.

He thought of nothing more until the dreams came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters:
> 
> -Musichetta - Fire Genasi, Bard: College of Valour, Folk hero background
> 
> -Enjolras - High Elf, Paladin: Oath of Devotion, Folk Hero background  
> -Courfeyrac - Lightfoot Halfling, Bard: College of Lore, Performer background  
> -Combeferre - Aasimar, Wizard: School of Abjuration, Sage background  
> -Marius - Half-elf, Wizard: School of Necromancy, Noble background  
> -Grantaire - Half-orc, Warlock: High Fae patron, Outlander background  
> -Bossuet - Human, Sorcerer: Wild Magic, Folk Hero background  
> -Bahorel - Mountain Dwarf, Fighter: Champion, Gladiator background  
> -Joly - Forest Gnome, Cleric: Light domain, Acolyte background  
> -Feuilly - Half-elf, Monk: Way of the Four Elements, Guild Artisan background  
> -Jehan - Wood Elf, Druid: Circle of the Moon, Hermit background  
> -Montparnasse - Drow (dark elf), Rogue: Thief, Criminal background
> 
>  
> 
> Definitions:
> 
> -Dragonborn - look very much like dragons standing erect in humanoid form, though they lack wings or a tail.   
> -Genasi - An elemental humanoid, the offspring of a human and an elemental genie - depending on the genie heritage, you get either fire, water, air, or earth genasi  
> -Lliira - Chaotic Good goddess of joy, life, and celebration - her priests and clerics are known as Joydancers  
> 


	4. Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw mention of violence & weapons, unhealthy warlock-patron relationships, Combeferre being upset

“I suppose we should start without them,” Enjolras said, turning away from the clock hanging on the wall of the cellar. The atmosphere was tense and heavy, a far cry from the friendly comfort that usually preceded the clandestine meetings. What little was said was spoken in murmurs, taunt and hushed.  “I’m sure Courfeyrac and Marius will be joining us shortly, but as based on the information Bahorel and I were able to come across, I believe time is of the essence. Bahorel, would you like to share what we discovered?”

Bahorel nodded solemnly, shifting in his chair to address his friends. 

“We spoke to a group of miners who work mostly under the Graycott Peaks. Whatever this blight is, it’s gone deep. It’s not just in the soil, it’s in the stone too. Mined gems are too brittle, turning to dust when touched. There’s worry of how workers will be able to make ends meet if they have nothing to sell.” He frowned, glancing at Enjolras, who nodded slightly. “And then there was...an incident. We don’t have many details; they seemed very reluctant to talk about it. Something happened to a woman deep in the tunnels. She was working with a partner when she...changed. Her partner managed to escape, we were told, though we weren’t able to speak to him, but we gathered that she attacked him in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. She hadn’t been any sort of magic user, but whatever she did to him wasn’t natural. She...couldn’t be restrained. They had to collapse the tunnel and seal her in.”

The room was silent. Horror ghosted over several faces. 

“There’s intense fear under the mountains,” Enjolras said. “Many miners have left their jobs, people who have worked the mines for generations. This affects more than just farmers. The death of the land will kill hundreds. Thousands. And slowly, painfully.”

“It’s hurting more than just the land,” Feuilly said, looking too pale. “I spoke to my mentor. She was able to speak to the earth somewhat, but it extends beyond that. The blight has seeped into the water - the Lightfoot River is tinged with black magic, and it’s moving faster than it could through the land. The air is also beginning to become affected.”

 “Why haven’t we heard anything about this before now?” asked Enjolras.

“Sahra gathered from the earth that it began on the land. An explosion of some sort, maybe - it’s difficult to parse specifics without words. But some kind of dark magic catalyst happened, and it has been spreading from that point. Eventually it made it to the river, and made its way into the air through evaporation. But the land is the source.”

“The grass screams,” said Jehan, quietly. Their face was tight, and they blinked hard as the looked between Enjolras and Feuilly. “Where the flock walked. It too is undead. I-” They turned their face away, choking back something. “I’m sorry,” they said thickly. “I didn’t find out more. It was difficult to listen.”

Bahorel reached out to them, and Jehan let him pull them into his arms. 

Across the room, Joly grimaced. “It might be spreading from the capital,” he said. “I tried to speak with Lliira. She...showed me images of the city.” Joly’s face was serious, and lined with worry. He looked older when he was not smiling. “I saw empty streets drained of colour. There was no harvest celebration this year. Lliira is at the heart of every festival, but she hasn’t been called to bless the capital in some time. I think she has lost touch with the Joydancers there.” He shook his head roughly, as though trying to loosen the dark pictures stuck in his mind. “I have heard of her abandoning warzones before, places of deep and bloody conflict, but never have I heard of her being purposefully forgotten or shunned. Even in times of religious turmoil and persecution. Hope has a habit of sticking even to dust.” 

“What do you think it means?” asked Enjolras.

“I don’t know,” said Joly miserably. “Her voice seemed very far away. I am...troubled.”

“I’m afraid you’re right to be,” said Enjolras grimly. “Thank you, though, for speaking to her. I think we will need as much divine aid as we can get.” 

He turned, cautiously eyeing Grantaire, who, propped up in the far corner, looked far too relaxed. “Of course that also includes your relationship too, Grantaire, with your…”

“Terrifyingly beautiful and fearsome fae creature.”

Enjolras stiffened. “Yes. Her. Have you managed to...contact her?”

Grantaire snorted. “Well, I won’t pretend I don’t remember you telling me that any patron I can only speak to when I’m absolutely shitfaced is not one worth making a soul pact with, but as a sign of good faith considering you actually listened to me for once instead of rushing off to get yourself killed, I’ll share with you everything she told me.” He took a breath, grinning at the cold stare Enjolras gave him. “She told me...absolutely nothing. Seemed more down to fuck than down to share any of her immortal knowledge. Shame she only visits me in my dreams. And believe me, I have had enough sexy dreams to know they don’t end the way you want them to.” Grantaire winked at Enjolras, whose dark golden complexion concentrated in his cheeks. “Other than that, just the usual  _ “make another deal with me and I’ll make you immortal and turn you into my eternal lover”,  _ blah blah blah. Gets a little tiresome, if I’m honest.”

“Shockingly even less helpful than I anticipated,” Enjolras said cooly, turning away from Grantaire with an air of finality. 

“Actually, Enjolras,” Combeferre said quietly, “I’m wary of any mention of eternal life.” He reached down to fish out of his bag the book he had carried with him since he had opened it in the archives. “This book I found contains a section on the acquisition of immortality. It was actually quite comprehensive. It did go into some detail on bonds and bargains with fae and fiends, particularly by those already undertaking a warlock’s bond, so Grantaire’s connection may be quite relevant.”

“My apologies,” murmured Enjolras, though the words were directed more to Combeferre; he did not meet Grantaire’s smug gaze. 

“Regardless,” said Combeferre, “I have a theory I believe is somewhat more likely, and strengthened by what has been shared tonight. I believe this blight might stem from the creation of a lich.” 

Jehan’s head snapped up, raw fear on their face. Joly stared at Combeferre, opening his mouth and then closing it again. Bahorel looked between them, frowning.

“What is a lich?” he asked tentatively, as though he knew already to fear the answer.

“It’s...incredibly taboo necromantic magic. Liches are mages who have bound their soul beyond their body, rising again as a powerful undead creature in a ritual known as the Ceremony of Endless Night. It is done through the creation of a potion made from the results of an utterly evil act. The transformation takes an incredible amount of skill - I know very little of the king’s magical prowess, but there are details that give me a greater belief that I am right. Even in successful turnings, the dark magic is so powerful that it desecrates the spot where it occurs. If the king - or someone close to him - had attempted the ritual, such an action would have left its mark on the earth, and expanded from there.”

“How...do we fight a lich?” asked Bossuet faintly, his hand snaking around Joly’s and holding it tight. 

“It might be a fool’s errand. Of what I have read, they are near impossible to kill. Even if the body is destroyed, a lich will reform near the vessel in which its soul is housed. Such a container would be undoubtedly extremely difficult to recover should the lich have successfully hidden it away.” 

“Combeferre, are you certain of this?” Enjolras’s voice was tense.

“No,” said Combeferre. “I am not certain. And I hope I am wrong. But if we are to face whatever evil lived within the heart of the capital, I would rather expect the worst.”

Enjolras nodded, the severe expression of anger, fear, and resolve cutting across his lovely face. “So be it. I will prepare all I can to face this thing, should any of you wish to join me. I understand, though, if this is not a fight everyone is willing to take.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” piped up Bahorel. “Since when have any of us turned around when danger was close? There’s a reason we are all here, Enjolras.” Around him, people were nodding, faces marked with determination. 

Enjolras looked like he was torn, equal parts relieved and troubled as he friends swore to risk their lives alongside him. The stale air in the tavern cellar was thick with tension, but with an undercurrent of steadfast will as strong as a beating heart. 

“Alright,” he said. “Combeferre, has your reading offered any indication of how best to face a lich, should it come down to it? How can we prepare?”

“Radiant damage is likely the strongest asset we have. Blessed weapons, light spells, pr-” Combeferre stopped suddenly, his eyes glazing over as he raised up a hand.

“What’s happening?” Enjolras was beside him instantly, a crackle of healing light already leaving his fingertips.

“Message from Marius,” Combeferre murmured. “Wait.” 

The room was silent as Combeferre listened to the voice inaudible to anyone else, and terribly still as he responded.

“Stay where you are,” he ordered, the smallest crack running through his words. “We will prepare as quickly as we can and meet you. As long as he’s alive, we will get him back.” He blinked as the spell faded, his golden eyes coming back to the room, far too wild. 

“Quickly! Collect what you need - we have to move tonight. Courfeyrac-” The usual quietly rich voice broke, turning to something unrecognizable, a wreck of utter fear. “Courfeyrac has been taken.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less talk more action next chapter PROMISE
> 
>  
> 
> -Enjolras - High Elf, Paladin: Oath of Devotion, Folk Hero background  
> -Courfeyrac - Lightfoot Halfling, Bard: College of Lore, Performer background  
> -Combeferre - Aasimar, Wizard: School of Abjuration, Sage background  
> -Marius - Half-elf, Wizard: School of Necromancy, Noble background  
> -Grantaire - Half-orc, Warlock: High Fae patron, Outlander background  
> -Bossuet - Human, Sorcerer: Wild Magic, Folk Hero background  
> -Bahorel - Mountain Dwarf, Fighter: Champion, Gladiator background  
> -Joly - Forest Gnome, Cleric: Light domain, Acolyte background  
> -Feuilly - Half-elf, Monk: Way of the Four Elements, Guild Artisan background  
> -Jehan - Wood Elf, Druid: Circle of the Moon, Hermit background  
> -Montparnasse - Drow (dark elf), Rogue: Thief, Criminal background  
> -Musichetta - Fire Genasi, Bard: College of Valour, Folk hero background
> 
>  
> 
> Lore Info: 
> 
> Marius used the Sending spell: "You send a short Message of twenty-five words or less to a creature with you are familiar. The creature hears the Message in its mind, recognizes you as the sender if it knows you, and can answer in a like manner immediately."


	5. Travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for undead creatures, fantasy violence, violence against fantasy animals, blades, talk of decay/death

 

They met Marius on the edge of town just as the moon crested the treeline. The wizard was alone, only his worried face visible from a distance, his dark clothing disappearing into the night landscape.

“Tell us what happened,” Enjolras said, striding forward through the tall grass on the side of the Red Road. Behind him, the others hurried to keep up, Grantaire hoisting Joly onto his back when the gnome’s legs couldn’t quite match pace. 

“I will,” said Marius, his voice cracking. Panic was obvious in his eyes, and he couldn’t manage to meet Enjolras’s gaze. “I’ll explain everything on the way. We need to find a cart, though, first.”

“No cart,” said Enjolras curtly. “We cannot come by the road. We go on foot, as unnoticed as possible.”

“It would take us most of the night to walk to the capital,” Combeferre broke in, the disquiet in his voice still uncomfortably strong. “Shouldn’t we be trying to get to Courfeyrac as soon as possible?”

“The undead are stronger in the dark. I believe we have a greater chance if we act in the daylight.”

Combeferre did not respond, his face lined with tension as he stared back at the elf. Enjolras took a step forward, lowering his voice to a murmur. 

“I fear for him too. Would that we had a way to appear effortlessly in the city unnoticed. But I am afraid if we are seen, suspicion would follow us. As long as he is alive, it is better if we are invisible.”

Combeferre grimaced but nodded, and he reached out to squeeze Enjolras’s hand before turning back to the group. 

“Jehan, would you lead us?”

“Of course,” they said, quietly, motioning for the party to follow them into the field through which the undead shepherdess and her flock had passed. As they did, they let their hands brush against the sharp-tipped grasses, glad to feel life still radiating within. Taking in hand the small pouch they wore on their belt that smelled of earth and lavender, they whispered a wish into the soil beneath their bare feet and let it resinate, expanding around themself and their companions, masking each footstep and muting each sound to outside ears. 

Behind them, Marius was explaining.

“He was attempting to enter the capital disguised as a soldier. He wanted to confirm an undead presence in the palace. I-I helped him prepare, but I was still worried for him going in alone. I turned Napoleon into a bird and sent him to follow Courfeyrac. I was watching through Napoleon’s eyes when he tried to enter the palace grounds and was seized and dragged away. I think the entire guard must be undead. Everyone I saw - they’re not reanimated corpses, not really. They move more like puppets. I’ve never seen anything like it before, but I am certain those were not living things.”

“Thank you, Marius,” said Enjolras, his mind spinning away from him. He fell back to speak with Feuilly, dropping his voice again. Nervous, Joly clutched at his holy symbol with one hand, the other held tight in Bossuet’s. Ahead, Jehan scanned the treeline ahead of them, shivering at the unnatural chill in the warm air. 

The group walked quietly a while, murmurs dampened by Jehan’s spell as they made their way through the forest. The night was clear but the forest canopy caught all but a few stray threads of moonlight. They paused only twice, when Bossuet stumbled over obstacles missed by his human eyes in the dark. It was nearing three in the morning when the dark tendrils of exhaustion began to creep into the collective gait, and their footsteps grew heavier as they wove between densely packed trees. 

“Once we get to the outskirts of the city,” Marius was saying, “I know somewhere we can go to rest.” 

“I suppose we should. We must be clear-minded when we-.” Enjolras stopped, catching Jehan’s sleeve and motioning for the group to still. “I hear something.” 

The party fell into deathly silence, listening hard for the approaching threat that had Enjolras instinctually nock an arrow. The footsteps were audible first, echoed by the vibrations of something heavy moving across nearby ground. It was the sound made deep in a large chest, though, that sent ice and dread through the group - the rattling of air through decaying lungs. 

Weapons were raised as the creature came into view, its huge body covered in molting feathers that moved like they were alive. Large patches had already come off, showing strips of rotting flesh under the coat, and it moved brokenly, one of its four clawed feet collapsing under it with each step, though it indicated no sign of pain in it’s dead-eyed, beaked face. The owlbear was dead, clearly, but evidently unbothered by the fact as it moved clumsily through the forest, metres from the party, and stopped. Slowly, as through fighting against its own neck muscles, the head turned towards the party.

Enjolras’s arrow struck true at the same time the creature let out a piercing screech and changed course, moving far quicker towards the readied group than its rotting form would suggest. Bahorel was equally quick, though, barrelling forward and slashing at the beast with his greataxe just as the wicked, hooked claws tore across his arm. 

Marius yelped at the impact, flinging out a hasty spell as he instinctually backed up for a clearer shot. The trees around them were still dense, though, and the spell ricocheted off a thick trunk, blackening the bark.

A burst of green energy shot from Grantaire’s hand, the beam catching the creature in its broad chest. Even as the magic singed the feathers, though, and cut down to the skin, the owlbear made no indication of pain. The slash across its sloped shoulder and the arrow wound in one front leg oozed sluggishly, but no fountain of blood poured. 

Vines burst from the ground, winding around the creature’s legs in an attempt to bind it. A rough tug from the beast, though, snapped the restraints, causing Jehan’s spell to whither again as they swore, stumbling backwards when the thing charged at them. Distracted by the druid, the owlbear did not seem to see the Feuilly until their quarterstaff cracked across its back, shattering bone beneath the thick feathers. The creature turned to slash at them, but Feuilly was quick, ducking around it and out of the way. At the same time, a beam of radiant light streaked from Joly’s outstretched hand, landing across the thing’s side. For the first time, the beast roared in apparent pain, the golden magic expanding from the impact point as it webbed across the coat. 

“It’s undead!” Joly called out. “Light, radiance, something holy!” 

Bossuet was quick to act, throwing a daylight spell up into the air, suddenly bathing the dark forest in a mid-day glow. The owlbear screeched again as the sunlight hit it, and bubbling blisters erupted along the dead skin. 

The sound was cut short when two beams of light hit it from two directions, sending the body backwards, crumpling into a still pile. Combeferre and Enjolras, staff and holy symbol extended, met each other’s eye as the radiant energy died down within the owlbear’s form. Bahorel, still bleeding profusely, was quick to move forward, hacking at the corpse which offered no resistance. 

“I think it’s dead-dead,” he called back as the party, wiping his axe on a small shrub. 

“We should burn the body,” Marius said quietly, his face pale in the bright light of Bossuet’s spell. 

“Bahorel, come here,” said Joly, his voice strained as he eyed the wound across the dwarf’s arm. When he did, Joly laid a hand on the bicep, pulling a healing spell from the well of joy he saved for just such occasions. 

Combeferre motioned for Bossuet to extinguish the sunlight, and the two of them cautiously approached the carcass. Flames sprang up among the feathers, and soon the the undead owlbear was a beacon of choking smoke and flame. 

“We can’t stay here,” said Enjolras. “The fire will attract attention.” He could see the weariness radiating off of his companions, and guilt tugged at him instantly. He brushed it off. “A few hours longer and we will reach the outskirts of the capital. A few hours more, for Courfeyrac’s sake.” 

“Better not dally, then,” said Joly, smiling tightly, shifting his pack onto his shoulders. A few nodded, and Jehan began to walk, leading the party away from the smouldering flame and back into the darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u should uuuuh leave me a comment :)
> 
> -Enjolras - High Elf, Paladin: Oath of Devotion, Folk Hero background  
> -Courfeyrac - Lightfoot Halfling, Bard: College of Lore, Performer background  
> -Combeferre - Aasimar, Wizard: School of Abjuration, Sage background  
> -Marius - Half-elf, Wizard: School of Necromancy, Noble background  
> -Grantaire - Half-orc, Warlock: High Fae patron, Outlander background  
> -Bossuet - Human, Sorcerer: Wild Magic, Folk Hero background  
> -Bahorel - Mountain Dwarf, Fighter: Champion, Gladiator background  
> -Joly - Forest Gnome, Cleric: Light domain, Acolyte background  
> -Feuilly - Half-elf, Monk: Way of the Four Elements, Guild Artisan background  
> -Jehan - Wood Elf, Druid: Circle of the Moon, Hermit background  
> -Montparnasse - Drow (dark elf), Rogue: Thief, Criminal background  
> -Musichetta - Fire Genasi, Bard: College of Valour, Folk hero background
> 
>  
> 
> Definitions:  
> -Owlbear: Classic D&D monster - literally a bear-shaped creature with feathers and an owl face.


	6. Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for fantasy horror elements and undeath

They reached the outskirts of the capital just as dawn began to crest, the spires of the city rising before them with the early fingers of the sun. The sharp-pointed walls that surrounded it jutted out against the mottled sky like an insult. From their hilltop vantage point where forest met farmland, the group paused.

Below them, figures were moving through the fields, looking so commonplace that it would have been easy to miss the lurching steps of undeath on them had one not known what to look for. 

“All of them,” breathed Combeferre, his knuckles turning white as he clutched his staff. “Dead. And still they toil.”

“It is not enough to profit off the backs of living farmers?Now the king uses the labour of the dead, denying them all dignities,” said Enjolras, fury rolled through his words. “This is madness.”

“It isn’t, though,” said Grantaire, punctuating his words with a sharp, humourless laugh. “It isn’t madness - it’s the work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. Calling it madness gives him a pass.” 

Enjolras did not respond, though his brow furrowed deeper. “Marius,” he said instead, “where is your safe house?” 

Marius chewed at his lip, worry clear on his face. “It’s an inn, in the slums outside the city walls. We will need to skirt the farmlands if we want to avoid the dead.”

“My magic is weak after masking our path all night,” said Jehan quietly. “I am not certain I will be able to shield us from sight much longer. I need to rest.”

“Then we will move as carefully as we can,” said Enjolras. “Marius, can you lead us?”

“I...I suppose.”

If Marius saw the looks of uncertainty exchanged around him, he did not comment, and began to creep along the edge of the forest, keeping as close as he could to the long shadows. The others followed softly behind him, alert as they could be after the long and sleepless night. Even without Jehan’s spell, nothing from the fields or the trees acknowledged them as they made their way towards the shantytown surrounding the Red Road they had so carefully avoided the night before. 

A small sea of crude shelters littered the red earth, spiraling out from the city gate. Makeshift tents leaned against dried clay buildings, many of the roofs caved in. Wooden structures rotted, shuddering in even the slightest breeze. Footpaths wound through the maze of huts, their unplanned design created by the need to go from one place to another. A few stronger-looking buildings rose out of the slums like beacons - the unmistakable front of a well-worn tavern stood by the roadway, and an open-sided rectangular shelter indicated a makeshift marketplace. A single stone building stood in the centre of the community, its rough architecture looking grand in comparison. A carving of a pair of hands tied with cord revealed the purpose: a temple to Ilmater, god of endurance, perseverance, and suffering. 

The shantytown was hushed and still as the company carefully made their way in. The stillness was unnerving - far too tense and uncanny to be natural. Weapons at the ready, the group followed Marius to the door of a larger, ramshackled wooden building. What windows there had once been were boarded up, the outside of the structure littered with scorch marks and gouges from blades. It was dark and lifeless, a broken shell with little promise of safety and respite, and a collective breath was held when Marius raised a hand to knock. The sound echoed in the silence surrounding them, and the group stood as still as possible, waiting for something to happen. 

And it did.

Starting low, the deep sound of something churning in the air began to reverberate. Strange, hissed words began to run through the gusts of sound, laced with malice and the promise of violence. 

“It isn’t safe here,” hissed Enjolras, holding his sword at the ready, crouched to defend against the thing whenever it showed itself. “We have to keep moving!”

“Wait!” said Marius, anxiety rather than fear marking his face. The hissing and spitting of words was getting louder, falling into a terrifying rhythm that set in to match the quickened heartbeats of the group. Leaning close to the door, Marius cupped his hands around his mouth to direct the sound, and called in. “ É ponine?”

As quickly as it began, the noise faded into nothing. There was a long pause, until a voice, muffled, came through the wood. “Marius?”

“Yes!” He said, a little too loud, and winced. 

The sound of chains being moved and locks being sprung came from inside, and at last the door cracked the tiniest bit, as a single pure black eye peered out. “Who are these people?” the voice demanded, rough and threatening and laced with fearful wariness. 

“Friends,” said Marius. “They’re here to help.” 

The eye flicked over the group, drooping slightly from exhaustion, and then disappeared as another chain seemed to be loosened, and the door at last swung open. The woman in the doorway gestured frantically, drawing in the travellers as quickly as they could go, before shutting the door again and beginning to fasten the dizzying array of locks. 

At last she turned, taking in the unexpected party as they did the same to her. The tiefling’s dark red skin was only partially visible in the dim light, most of it hidden under her long sleeves and messy dark hair. Impossible to miss, though, were the ram’s horns curling out of her temples, and the long pointed tail swishing anxiously behind her. Two short blades were strapped to her hips, and she kept her gloved hands on them as she regarded the group with distrust. Marius took a step towards her. 

“It’s good to see you,  É ponine,” he said with a crooked smile, and opened his arms. 

Despite the defensive stance, her shoulders softened slightly at the gesture, and she rolled her eyes before stepping forward to hug him. “It’s been too long, you bastard,” she murmured into his shoulder. “And you picked a real shit time to come back.”

“That’s why we’re here,” he said as they pulled back. “We want to stop the blight.”

She cocked her head. “The what?”

“The...whole undead thing. It’s spreading from the capital but nobody seems to know what is causing it.  É ponine, what happened?”

She looked unsettled again, her eyes moving over the group. “Come with me,” she said. “We shouldn’t talk so close to the street.” She led them through the empty inn, the structure bowed in places from age and neglect. Towards the back of the building, they followed her up a twisted staircase, and into a room with several dilapidated bunks where she sat, gesturing for the others to do the same. 

“You can stay here if you need to,” she said. “Not like the rooms are getting used anymore.” She sighed, a heaviness in her breath.

“Thank you,” Marius said, relief clear on his brow. “We’ve travelled through the night and need the rest. Once we do, though, we’re heading into the city centre. We’re going to try and end this...whatever this is.”

“You said you could tell us about it,” said Combeferre said to  É ponine. “We have so little to go on. Anything you could share with us would be helpful.”

 “I don’t know what happened, exactly. There was....an earthquake of sorts, I guess. Thought the whole building was going to come down on me. But it also sounded like an explosion, coming from the inner city. I don’t know. I didn’t see. But the air turned black for a moment - not like smoke, more like...oil. It was hard to breathe. And then it was gone. But so was everyone who had been outside.” She shuddered. “Dead, I mean. They were all dead. Anyone who wasn’t indoors when it happened. Everyone in the market. Kids, playing in the street. Everyone.” 

The room was silent, the horror settling into weary bones. 

“ É ponine,” Marius said carefully, “where is your family?”

She swallowed hard. “Who the hell knows,” she said, trying to offer a wry smile that turned into a grimace. “We were all here, inside, when it happened. We were all fine. But then my parents decided they should seize the opportunity to grab anything that wasn’t nailed down. I last saw them about an hour after the explosion, heading into the city proper. They took Zel with them.”

“What about Gavroche?” Marius asked.

É ponine waved her hand. “He’s here somewhere. Losing his mind being cooped up like this, but like hell I’m letting him go out with those  _ things  _ that have been roaming around since it happened.”

“Pardon me,” said Enjolras, “but how long ago  _ did  _ this happen?” 

“A week and a half ago, maybe? Honestly, time is feeling kind of fucked for me too.” She swallowed. “Anyway. The dead stayed dead for about twelve hours. Just long enough to collect whatever family you had lost and lay them out for burial. Not fucking long enough to come to terms with anything before they’re sitting up again and shuffling off.”  É ponine shuddered again. “It was horrible. The undead - they tend not to pay the living any mind unless you attack them. Or if you get in their way. Try to hold back the body of your wife only for her to rip your throat out. Don’t worry, though, because pretty soon you’ll just rise along with her.” 

“Gods,” breathed Joly, his face drained of colour. 

“People are afraid to go out now,”  É ponine continued. “Some people left as fast as they could. Most have nowhere else to go. Soon the last of our food will be gone and I’ll have to make that choice for myself. I don’t know if my parents are coming back. I don’t care, really, if they do or not, but I told myself I would wait for Azelma at least. But I don’t know if she’s alive, and if I have to-  _ Gavroche put that down!” _

All eyes whipped to the doorway where another tiefling crouched, his hand outstretched towards a levitating coin purse which shuddered and fell to the ground as he started at the sound of his name. 

“You screwed up my spell!” he accused his sister, leaping to his feet. His skin was the same dark burgundy, though his horns were still small, with only the barest hint of a curve. 

“Good! You’re going to get caught by someone worse than me someday. Now give back whatever you stole.”

“That was the first one I tried, I swear!”

“Bad luck that you chose mine then,” said Bossuet, reaching down to pick up his purloined purse. “I have about three copper and a few balls of lint in here.” He considered the pouch a moment, then tossed it to the young tiefling. “Consider it a tip for a good trick.” 

“Oh, yeah!” Gavroche exclaimed before sticking his tongue out at  É ponine and scurrying out of the room again. 

“Brat,” she muttered sourly. “No one should be encouraging him.” She turned back to the group. “That’s all I’ve got, anyway,” she said. “Marius said that you’re going to try to do something about it? I say good fucking luck. Whatever happened in there, I wouldn’t want to be the one facing it down.” She stood then, her posture tired. “You all look like shit, honestly. You can have this room and the one next to it. I don’t have any food for you, but you can stay here as long as you need to, I guess.”

“Thank you,  É ponine. We owe you more than you know,” said Marius, reaching out to squeeze her hand. Her expression stuttered a second, but fell back into severity as he released it again. 

“Yeah, well,” she replied, heading for the door. “Just. Don’t die, alright?”

 Marius nodded, the gesture feeling heavy with uncertainty.

 “We’ll do our best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiefling: Humanoids with a fiendish heritage - often the descendent of humans and devils. Frequently have tails, horns, and pointed teeth, sometimes with additional devilish features like bat wings or cloven hooves.
> 
> Ilmater: Lawful Good god of those who suffered, the oppressed, and the persecuted, who offered relief and support 
> 
> -Éponine - Tiefling Rogue: Scout, Urchin background  
> -Gavroche - Tiefling Rogue: Arcane Trickster, Urchin background
> 
> -Enjolras - High Elf, Paladin: Oath of Devotion, Folk Hero background  
> -Courfeyrac - Lightfoot Halfling, Bard: College of Lore, Performer background  
> -Combeferre - Aasimar, Wizard: School of Abjuration, Sage background  
> -Marius - Half-elf, Wizard: School of Necromancy, Noble background  
> -Grantaire - Half-orc, Warlock: High Fae patron, Outlander background  
> -Bossuet - Human, Sorcerer: Wild Magic, Folk Hero background  
> -Bahorel - Mountain Dwarf, Fighter: Champion, Gladiator background  
> -Joly - Forest Gnome, Cleric: Light domain, Acolyte background  
> -Feuilly - Half-elf, Monk: Way of the Four Elements, Guild Artisan background  
> -Jehan - Wood Elf, Druid: Circle of the Moon, Hermit background  
> -Montparnasse - Drow (dark elf), Rogue: Thief, Criminal background  
> -Musichetta - Fire Genasi, Bard: College of Valour, Folk hero background


End file.
